


Like Coffee and Cream

by theskywasblue



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: Arthur misses Paris in the springtime.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	Like Coffee and Cream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauand/gifts).



> I was asked very politely to write a coffee shop AU...only to discover that, despite having read a fair few (very good ones) I had no idea how to approach writing one...so I did what I always do and wrote some introspective nonsense that's not at all an AU but does involve coffee in a vague sort of way (but is basically about Arthur learning Eames' love language.) I have no regrets.

Arthur misses Paris in the springtime - the cool sunlight and endless flowers, the city coming alive after the long chill of winter; the little sidewalk cafes where he sat with Mal, both still wearing gloves and heavy scarves against the cold, laughing over _café au lait_. He suspects this is more a symptom of missing Mal, than actually missing Paris, the place he washed ashore after his medical discharge, with his hair half-grown out of its military buzz cut, a month’s supply of painkillers for his shoulder, and everything he owned in canvas duffel that still smelled of cordite and sand.

“Look - that one there - he’s handsome, don’t you think?”

Arthur chokes, and has to grab for a napkin to stop the coffee from dribbling down his chin and on to the front of his coat. “What - Mal, I don’t think - that isn’t…” he pulls in a hard breath, collects himself, and finishes - with no small amount of desperation, “Mal.”

Her smile is merciless. “Someone a little more rugged, maybe?”

“Please, stop.”

She laughs, reaching across the table to wrap her long fingers, carefully around his wrist. “Just - promise me that you won’t use this job as an excuse to make yourself lonely, Arthur.”

“I won’t,” he promises, even knowing then that it’s a lie, because he has no other reason to leave, except he panics a little when things feel too easy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. That’s why he picks the jobs he does.

Mal draws her hand back, sits up tall in her chair, and gives him _that look_ , the serious, scholarly one; the one that reminds Arthur she’s very much a genius, a creature of ruthless knowledge and efficiency. “And don’t ignore what I’m saying, just because you don’t want it to be true, either.”

Years later, he still tries not to think too hard about what she meant; tries not to imagine that she’d been trying to tell him something, even then. Those days in Paris had been analyzed to death, already. He had even tried to relive them, until he had realized that memories, tinted with somnacin, filtered through the PASIV, were more about what you put into them than what actually happened. The mind doesn’t work like some kind of CCTV camera, impassively recording only the facts; and nothing _remembered_ is ever entirely accurate.

“Here, darling, you look like you could use a little pick-me-up.” Eames reaches around Arthur’s shoulder, slides the almost-too-full coffee mug onto the desk with deliberate care. His warm, heavy hand draws back, squeezes Arthur’s shoulder afterward. The mug is a hideous bubblegum pink, with a cartoon panda on it purchased in the Shanghai airport on a thirty-three hour layover, when Arthur had been miserable, and angry at the world. He’d hated it, hated _everything_ , and he’d dropped it into a trash can by their gate when Eames wasn’t looking, only to go back for it at the last second, because he had realized almost too late what it meant.

The coffee inside is the perfect milky brown shade that Arthur prefers. There’s a trace of sugar scattered on the rim from an imprecise spoon. Arthur curls his palms around the warm ceramic and savours the gentle heat. He ducks his head, a little ashamed, somehow. “Thanks, Eames.”

Eames’ hand lingers on Arthur’s shoulder, slips to the back of his neck - warm, gentle, with specific calloused edges that linger, even though he hardly handles a gun outside the dreamscape anymore.

“Anything I can help with?”

“No.” Arthur drags his hands from the keyboard, leans back into Eames’ touch. Eames responds by squeezing a little tighter, working his fingertips into knotted muscles. “I’m just distracted.”

“You know the work won’t go anywhere if you take a little break. Get some fresh air. It’s lovely outside.” He moves his hand around, settles it on the high part of Arthur’s chest, fingers spanning his ribs, holding him gently back from the screen. “Am I tempting you yet?”

Arthur cracks a smile. “Maybe later. I just want to get this done.”

Eames thumps his palm twice, resolutely, against Arthur’s ribs. “Right then, I’ll leave you to it.”

As Eames turns to leave, Arthur lifts the coffee cup to his lips, inhales the part-sweet-part bitter aroma, and glances out the window at the perfectly cloudless spring sky. He takes a quick mouthful of the drink, so it doesn’t spill into his lap as he spins his chair around.

“Eames!” he reappears in the doorway in an instant, barely having taken more than a few steps down the hall. “Let’s go somewhere for lunch, alright? That place by the park, maybe?”

There’s something like bright relief on Eames’ face for just an instant, before it’s replaced by his easy smile, the one Arthur knows is real, because it shows the crooked tooth that Eames otherwise tries to hide, when he’s attempting to make any kind of impression. “It’s a date,” he says, with a wink. “And don’t forget to drink that.”

-End-


End file.
